My Lungs Ache Filled With Water - PART 1
Masterpost / Part 1 / Part 2
It’s like when you remember you’re breathing. Every breath feels unnatural and mechanic. It’s like trying to forget about it so you can breathe properly, but never being able to again. It’s like spending the rest of your life feeling like you’re doing it wrong, like you’re not getting enough air.
That’s what if feels like for Dean, being in love with Sam.
It’s like spending your life pretending you don’t feel it, just so you can feel normal again, just for a second, just for freaking moment.
And it’s the weirdest thing.
The horrible certainty that there’s something wrong with you. That what you feel and think is so fucked up, so twisted, that you’re actually disgusted by it. But still, there’s always something worse than being alone in that fucked up, oxygen-deprived corner, than having to keep your mouth shut, than living terrified at what you might say or do.
It’s the knowledge that you might’ve dragged someone along with you.
*
Dean would die for Sam every day, in a heartbeat, no questions asked, no second thought, plunging on fire for the tiniest, slowest heartbeat Sam could manage to give. Dean would kill anyone and would do anything.
Sam’s just everything there is anywhere, at any time.
He’s awesome.
Dean’s spent his life training to look out for Sam, and he knows everything there is to know on the subject. Which doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention anymore. He is. Sam’s his kid brother. He wouldn’t be able to stop even if he wanted to.
Sam is the most fascinating thing Dean’s ever seen. And Dean has been in some pretty awesome places. But Sam is something else entirely.
The shittiest thing of it all is that Sam is sort of a twink, and he doesn’t even know it. He just turned sixteen, but looks older. He’s the perfect jailbait, tall and lean, skin tanned from too much training under the sun,bright smiles and dimples that get them the free piece of pie every time. He’s the wet dream of all teenage girls and, well, pretty much anyone else. And he spends too much time around Dean, looking at him like he’s something good, stealing his attention and messing with his head, twisting his lungs.
As if Dean’s head wasn’t already filled to the brim with Sam, Sam, Sam.
*
Dean doesn’t know exactly when it happened, when his brain stopped naming Sam as his Brother and Sam became Everything. He thinks it might have always been like that, and he was just blissfully ignorant. It was better then. Before he could name it. Before he knew how fucked up and twisted he was.
Sam was fourteen and walking around hand in hand with his first girlfriend.
Dean thinks he’ll die wondering what life would be like if Sam had never met her. If they were never introduced, if Sam had kept her away, hidden, had never let Dean see her.
Sydnee was the kind of girl that made Sam’s panties all wet. She was smart and hot, and smiled at Sam like she could see how awesome he was, like she could see what Dean saw. She had everything Sam wanted in a girl and when she was around, he looked like an idiot, wide eyes and big dimpled smile, talking about dead presidents or whatever historic figures that gave Sammy wet dreams. She was freaking perfect for Sammy.
Dean hated her.
In a way that was inexplicable, ridiculous and so fucking much. She wasn’t evil and she wasn’t mean. And he knew, logically, that their relationship wouldn’t last forever. But every time Sam came home, mouth red and hair sticking up in all directions, all Dean could think of was how easy it would be to get rid of her, to make her go away, to keep her from stealing Sam away. All he could think of was ways to make sure Sam didn’t need her anymore.
And Dean knew he was obsessed. He knew because no one else seemed to be doing it, no one outside a stalker movie did what Dean does. No one seemed to be waking up hard and horny after a sex dream involving their sixteen year old younger brother. No one seemed to try to gulp down the smell of the people they lived with. So he knew it was an obsession. He’s not stupid.
It was just worse knowing what it meant. Why his lungs became mechanic when Sam was around.
*
Sam starts avoiding him.
He seems to be under the impression that he’s being subtle about it. Like the way he jerks away from Dean when they get too close is smooth. As if he didn’t look scared when they are alone. And Dean feels the familiar dread of being discovered, the fear that he might have been too obvious, that Sam might have figured it out. That Sam will be disgusted.
Sam avoids him like a disease for a week, and it makes Dean feel nauseated and angry. It would be easier if Sam just snapped. Just started throwing punches and curses. It would be less terrifying than all the things Dean’s brain keeps telling him.
Dean tries to act normal. Too normal maybe, because by the end of the eighth day, Sam looks even more terrified and freaked out. And Dean realizes that Sam hasn’t said a word to him since he got home from school.
“Dad called this afternoon.” He says, pretending to be paying attention to the TV and not at every shift of Sam’s legs. “Said it’s gonna take another week.”
“Oh.” Sam breathes, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Alright.”
“You might get to finish the school year before moving.”
“Right.”
He gives up all pretense of not paying attention to Sam and scoots over, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam lets him, but goes rigid.“Sammy. Talk to me. What’s up with you?”
“What? I’m fine.”
“You have a really bad poker face.” Dean pokes him.
“Do not.”
“Do too. I can see you’re freaked out. Just tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing is going on!” Sam says, too loud. He stares at Dean’s face, eyes wide and face now flushed. “Just. Leave it, Dean. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Sam-“
“Stop it, ok?” Sam pushes him away and goes to his room, like the emo teenager he is sometimes.
Dean’s head hits the wall behind the couch with a thump.
*
He thinks he might’ve fallen asleep. The TV is off now, the clock on the wall telling him he slept for two hours, and Dean looks around to see what woke him up.
Sam’s sitting on the chair closest to the couch, knees up and face hidden.
At first he thinks Sam’s crying. And that sends a shock to his brain, forcing him to wake up, at once out of the couch, alert and ready to kill anything. But Sam looks up and his face is dry and his hair is a wild mess, he looks high and scared.
“Sammy? You ok?”
“I’ve been. I don’t even-I don’t know. I’ve been trying to work this out, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do.” Sam shakes his head, looking around like a scared dog. “I don’t know what to do with it. What do I do?”
“What’s going on, Sammy?”
“I’m so in love with you, Dean.” He blurts out. And holy shit. Holy shit. Dean feels like something grabbed hold of his heart and is trying to squeeze the blood out of it. “I’ve been in love with you for so long now. And I don’t even-I love you.”
God, no. Not Sam too. Don’t do this to Sammy too. Jesus! How can Dean spend so much time studying Sam and miss this bomb waiting to blow, this monster eating Sam too?
“What?” Dean backs away until his knees hit the couch and Sam looks even more scared now. Dean’s instincts tell him to make Sam better. But his mind is screaming to back away. To get the fuck out. To get out of the house, get into the car and drive until Sam’s words stop having any meaning.
“I. I love you, Dean.” He says it like the words are tearing themselves out of his throat. Like he can’t hold back.
Oh Fuck.
Dean’s heart is beating too hard, too fast. Shit, this might be a heart attack. His mechanical breathing not enough to make his brain work. “What the fuck, Sammy? What’s wrong with you?” The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. But Sam doesn’t even seem surprised that Dean’s reacting this way. He seems to be expecting a lot worse.
He has no idea that he’s just offering Dean everything he’s ever wanted.
“I guess…” Sam shakes his head, nose flaring like it always does when he’s trying to make himself not cry. “I guess I’m just wrong. In the head.” He smiles the fakest smile Dean’s ever seen. “We’ve always known that, huh?”
He says it like a joke. And it’s another punch to the gut for Dean. Because it’s Sam repeating Dean’s words, Dean’s joke. Repeating a joke Dean has told a million times.
There’s something wrong with your head, Sammy. We’ve always known that, huh?
A million times, over and over again, and Dean feels guilt drowning him with the thought that Sam is carrying it around like his own personal crucifix.
“No, Sam-Just. Stop. Don’t cry. Ok?” His mouth is dry and if Sam starts crying, Dean will give in. He’ll say yes and fuck them both up so badly, nothing will ever be right again. He wants to say that there’s nothing wrong with Sam. He wants to say that he feels it too. He wants to grab Sam by the neck and kiss him and bite him and claim him, swallow him up like a predator with a small prey. His voice refuses to give in, though. “You can’t, dude. You’re not supposed to-not for your brother.” He says instead. “It’s, you have to know it’s wrong, Sammy. It’s-“
“Disgusting. It’s what you’re saying, right?” Sam laughs, bitter. “I guess I knew that too.”
“Yeah, Sam.” He sighs. His hands are wet with nervous sweat and he tells himself that’s why he’s not touching Sam right now. Not because touching Sam would eventually escalate to… something. Something bad. Something wrong. “I can’t.” He tells himself. “I don’t even know what to do with this information, man!”
“Well, you asked.” Sam smiles, not so fake now, just sad. Broken. And it breaks whatever’s left inside Dean too. “Yeah, I know.” He says, not looking at Dean. “Don’t-don’t worry about. It’s fine. It’s not like I was thinking you’d-don’t worry about it. I know what I am.” He gets up, rubs his hands on his face and goes to his room, walking fast like he’s trying to run away.
Dean just stands there for what feels like hours, until his heart is beating at a normal pace, until his lungs start working again,glad he’s not sharing a room with Sam, and he’s not thinking about going into Sam’s room and just, fuck, just give everything Sam wants.
Everything Dean wants too.
*
Dean doesn’t sleep. He closes his eyes and all he sees is Sam sprawled naked under him, tanned and hard, telling Dean how much he loves him. Begging Dean to do something, anything, Dean, please, please. So Dean keeps his eyes open and stares at the bedroom ceiling until the sun is bright outside and his head is pounding.
In the kitchen he makes himself the strongest coffee his stomach can handle. He can see Sam’s closed door from beside the prehistoric coffee maker, tries not to stare at it, but it seems to be the only thing he can focus on. It feels like shooting practice and Sam’s door has target painted on its old wood surface.
The coffee tastes like mud, but Dean chugs down his first cup, burning his tongue and making his eyes water. He’s pouring himself a second one when Sam’s door opens and he comes out, looking rumpled, and wearing the same clothes he was wearing last night.
Dean holds his breath, almost choking on a mouthful of coffee.
Sam stares at him for maybe for a minute, obviously trying to school himself, trying to act brave, before crossing the living room and disappearing inside the bathroom. And Dean’s the one freaking out now, his legs feel like lead and he refuses to let Sam know what this gigantic elephant in the room is doing to him.
He takes the moment to slip on the old plastic chair and use the crooked wooden table to keep his body upright, before his legs give out like a crappy teen pop star on a crappy sad music video.
Sam comes out of the bathroom and goes straight into the kitchen, walking the longest way to the fridge, keeping himself as far from Dean as possible. He looks-like shit. Dean can see he has dark circles under his eyes and his mouth looks raw and bitten. He looks like he might be getting sick, only. Only Dean knows what sickness that is, and he’s looking for a cure himself.
“Sammy.” He says, trying to sound worried, calm, anything that’s not heartbroken and breathless. “How-“
“Mornin’.” Sam’s voice is cold, and it twists something awful inside Dean’s chest. He pours himself a cup of coffee with too much milk and sugar, back to Dean, and leaves the kitchen.
Not once looking at Dean’s face.
*
Sam locks himself in his room for the rest of the day. Dean half expects some angry chick rock to blast the house down, but Sam’s quiet. It’s Saturday, so Dean doesn’t have to go to work, and he spends the day worrying himself sick, half mother hen, half stupid in love. But Sam doesn’t leave the room.
By nightfall, Dean starts to feel antsy, walking up and down the hall like a freaking abandoned pet or something. So he makes sandwiches. Grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches because Sam loves them.And maybe they’ll... bring peace to earth or make Sam come out of the freaking room, or just give Dean something to distract himself with.
He makes too many and only has the stomach to eat one. And he stands there, beside the kitchen table, staring at a plate full of disgusting sandwiches, and wondering what the hell kind of life is that they have. When did taking care of Sammy became this? What the fuck!
He knocks on Sam’s door, feeling ridiculous. “Sam?” Sam doesn’t answer. “Sam, I know you’re there, ok? I know you don’t want to talk now. So, just-“ Dean puts his ear against the door and he can hear Sam’s breathing, loud and scared. “You have to eat something. You don’t even need to look at me. Just, come out. Eat something, please.” Silence. “I made grilled banana and peanut butter sandwiches. They are just as gross as you like and they are cooling on the kitchen table. Probably gonna attract rats.”
“I’ll be right there.” Sam calls out and Dean releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
Sam comes out five minutes later, when Dean’s sitting in front of the TV, with a beer at hand. He still looks sick and his hair is still a mess, but he smiles at Dean before rushing to the kitchen and Dean’s not at all surprised when he stretches his neck and looks to the kitchen and Sam’s sitting at the table, gobbling down those sandwiches like he was starving.
Dean knows things are going to be ok.
They’ll be just fine.
*
Dean dreams of Mom.
He didn’t see her burning, but Dad talked about it enough that his imagination painted a very realistic picture.
The room is collapsing around them, flames clinging around his legs like vine and she screams at him, angry, her face framed by hair and fire.
“He’s your brother! How could you, Dean? He’s just a baby!” Her tone voice is high like a banshee’s, not at all like Dean remembers and she keeps trying to pull him into the fire with her. To drown him on it like the fire’s holy water and he’s a demon.
He wakes up with a startled gasp, sheets tangled around his legs. He’s shaking and can’t stop crying.
Your brother, Dean.
*
They get better. But not by much. The rest of the week is the worst and most awkward week of Dean’s life. It’s even worse than time Dad caught him jerking off in the bathroom when he was twelve and they had The Talk, with Dad stammering about condoms and bees,while Dean hid his face in his hands.
It’s worse because it’s Sammy. Who acts like Dean’s a stranger. And Dean keeps getting urges to scream “You caused this! You opened the Pandora’s Box!”, but that would be too much hypocrisy even for Dean, they are both drowning on dry land. Sam was just the one brave enough to say it. Or stupid enough. Dean’s not sure which one it is.But they don’t talk about it. Ever. It’s Fight Club with incest. And Sam is obviously trying to pretend nothing happened, but the effort is pointless, with the way he won’t look at Dean in the eye, or the way he looks like he hasn’t slept in months, or even the way he seemed to have forgotten the correct response to “Bitch.”
He doesn’t start conversations anymore, doesn’t talk about the books he’s reading, doesn’t say anything unless Dean talks first. It only makes everything shittier. Sam looks like what’s left of a poor sad fellow after a bad breakup, and the weight inside Dean’s head won’t stop yelling at him to fix it. To fuck Sam into the couch until he looks blessed and happy, instead of scared and sad.
So Dean’s more than happy when Dad comes back and two days later he and Dean leave to catch a werewolf, leaving Sam behind.
*
The werewolf is easy to track and kill. It’s been attacking people in Lowell, Massachusetts, leaving behind open chests with no heart and a lot of terrified people. It takes them two days to drive there, three hours to ask around and figure out where it’s coming from. And that night, they corner it inside an abandoned house and Dad kills it with one shot.
They go to a bar later, Dad still high on a successful hunt and Dean still restless, thinking about Sam and scared shitless of Dad ever finding out, looking for a distraction.
The distraction, when it comes, is a waitress called Katy. She flirts shamelessly with him, gives him a full view inside her shirt when she brings him a beer and when she smiles, she has dimples.
He fucks her in the alley behind the bar, her legs wrapped around him as he drives hard and fast into her. She manages to come twice, his thumb pressing on her clit, before Dean comes with a grunt, all the knots inside him loosening and leaving him sated and relaxed.
Dad gives him a half amused shake of the head when he comes back inside, hands Dean a beer and doesn’t say anything.
He’s feeling good, even moving his head along with whatever crap they are playing at the bar, and the feeling sticks with him until much later, when he’s brushing his teeth at the mold infested bathroom of their motel room before going to sleep. That’s when he sees the red bite mark on his neck.
“Son of a bitch.” he curses, spitting toothpaste everywhere. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t even notice Katy was biting him. Doesn’t she know anything about random fucks? “Son a bitch!”
He washes his mouth quickly, grabs a bunch of toilet paper and soaks it with freezing water, pressing it against his neck, praying for the marks to disappear, even though he knows they’ll stay there for a few days. Just his luck.
“Too late now, son.” Dad says from the bathroom door, smirking. “Should’ve known better than to let her bite you.”
“I know.” He grumbles.
“Are you done here? I want to shower.”
“Yeah.” Dean throws the paper in the trash. “I’m done.”
*
When they get back, it’s Friday afternoon, sun high in the sky and not even a small breeze to cut the hot air.
Sam’s in the kitchen, books and paper occupying the whole table, a concentrated look on his face. Dean sort of wants to kiss the top of his head. He sort of wants to kiss every other part too. But he doesn’t.
Sam looks up when they come in, and he smiles at Dean. A small, but real smile and Dean grins back, heart beating faster and lungs contracting.
“Hey, Dean.” Sam’s smile is bigger this time.
“Hey, Sammy.” And then Sam’s face shuts down completely, going hard and hurt. “Wha-“
“Sam, get the rest of stuff out of the trunk.” Dad says going to the fridge, nodding towards the door.
“Yes, sir.” Sam says automatically, getting up from the table and walking past Dean like he’s not even there.
By the time Sam gets back inside with the rest of stuff they got at Caleb’s after the werewolf, Dean is piling up the dirty laundry by the bathroom door and Dad’s at their tiny dinner table, taking the guns apart to clean and oil them.
Sam puts the stuff by Dad’s chair and goes back to the kitchen. Dean can see him hunched over the books, but can’t see his face, and he’s quietly freaking out. He obviously did something in between coming inside the kitchen and Sam going out. He’s trying to figure out what it was that twisted Sam’s panties, when he looks inside the bathroom and sees his reflection looking back on the mirror.
And the purple bite mark on his neck that chick left him with. It’s not even that visible, but Sam obviously noticed it. No wonder Sam shut down like that. He’d be upset too if Sam came home with a bite mark or a hickey. Hell, he’d be pissed. He understands what Sam is feeling, but he wishes Sam had better self control. This isn’t easy on any of them and Sam is only making things worse.
Plus, it’s pretty pathetic to feel like he was cheating on Sam.
“We’ll need to do laundry soon.” Dean tells his dad, to distract himself. “Preferably tomorrow.”
“It’s a good idea, I’m almost out of clean pants.” Dad says, taking the Glock apart with practiced ease. “Sam can go with you. Just don’t let him do the pouring of anything.”
He tries to think of a joke, but his mind draws a blank.
*
The car smells like dirty laundry and leather. Sam’s fidgeting at his side, picking at the hole on his jeans. Dean’s nervous too, but he doesn’t want to show it. He refuses to apologize, because he didn’t technically do anything wrong. And maybe this will help Sam detach and move on. Find someone to date, some chick with a good rack. Or-some guy.
There’s a twist inside his chest that screams at the image of Sam with anyone else.And he ignores the urge to park anywhere and go down on Sam, to nose his cock and swallow it down as far as Dean can take it, to choke on it until Sam comes hard and messy all over his face, blunt nails scraping his head and the smell of Sam strong and heavy.
It’s still surprising sometimes, how fucked up Dean is.
“I’m sorry.” Sam blurts out. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“What?” he asks, because it’s better than saying what he was really thinking.
“It’s none of my business what you do with-“ Sam lets out a breath. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t take it out on you just because I’m. You know.”
“Yeah. It’s not your fault, man. It’s a shitty situation.” Sam still looks scared and Dean wants to bang his head against the wheel. “It’s fine, dude. Forget it.”
Sam nods, and the rest of the drive is quiet, the car packed full with all the things Dean refuses to say.
*
That night, Dean can hear Sam walking around the house, up and down the hall. And he aches everywhere. He feels like Sam’s distress is attacking him.
He spends the whole night half dreading, half hoping for Sam to barge into his room and do something.
Sam doesn’t.
*
In December, Dean gets a job at a gas station not too far from the house they are renting and Dad leaves for another hunt. Dean’s working the graveyard shift, and he spends most of his time eating candy and watching crappy movies on an ancient blue and white TV.
He thinks about what he’d do if someone tried to rob the place at gun point, if he’d be the hero or if he’d steal a share too, he thinks about what car parts he could buy if he saved all his money, he organizes the candy, reads all the skin mags and mixes Pop Rocks with Coke; he tries and tries, but nothing distracts him. Any second without absolute focus on something else and Sam floods his head. Because even when Dean’s not spending all his free time with Sam, he’s still the only thing Dean thinks about.
There’s a kid that comes in every night around three. He’s about Sam’s age, if not younger, and has similar boy band hair, but he’s not as tall and not as tanned. He avoids eye contact and pays in change.
And that’s when Dean really starts to go crazy.
Dean can’t help but stare at him every time he comes in. The kid always buys those microwave burgers that taste like cardboard paper and whatever soda is the cheapest, and sits just outside, by the curb, to eat it. He’s skinny as hell too, never wears a good coat, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s some kind of baby hooker.
He looks enough like Sammy that Dean starts getting ideas.
About how much money he can afford in order to spend the night fucking the kid, about taking him somewhere safe and warm and pretend he’s someone else.
He thinks and thinks until his brain hurts and he feels guilty when he gets home to Sam’s smiles, to Sam listening to shitty pop rock, to Sam getting ready for school, to Sam trying so hard to be normal. And it only makes Dean fell shittier.
*
“What’s your name, kid?” Dean’s pretending to take a cigarette break, even though you’re not supposed to smoke at gas stations. He just needed an excuse to come out.
“Call me Chad.”
Dean snorts. “Is that your real name?”
The kid looks up and smiles. He doesn’t have dimples and his eyes are blue, but he has the right kind of mouth. Small and pink that stretches in a big bright smile. “No.” he says.
“Right.” Dean fiddles with the cigarette pack. “Is there any point in asking your real age?”
“No.” he says again. “You can ask other stuff, though.”
“Like what?”
“Like what I’m willing to do and how much.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like it’s the sort of thing he says all the time. And Dean doesn’t know if the rush of heat he feels is anger or arousal.
“Of course.” He says, voice cracking a little. He doesn’t say anything else and the kid doesn’t offer anything else that night.
But through the next night, Chad seems to have decided to tease the hell out of Dean. And he’s good at it too, just the right amount of shy and slutty to make Dean hard.
“Shit.” He breathes, once the Chad has bought for his food and has left. “Shit, shit, shit.”
He waits until he’s sure the kid is done eating before coming out. He takes twenty dollars out of his wallet and walks around, to the back part of the building. And Chad’s smart enough to know what Dean means. As soon as Dean’s back touch the brick wall, the kid is there.
Dean shoves the money inside Chad’s too thin coat and says “Suck me.” And Chad goes down like the pro he obviously is, he licks and sucks and it’s just the right amount of pressure and the right amount spit to make Dean’s knees feel like rubber.
And on his knees, with his eyes closed and mouth stretched around Dean’s cock, his throat around the head, he looks a lot like Sam. Dean comes way too fast, ashamed and terrified of how far he’s willing to go with this twisted thing inside him.
Chad sucks Dean off four more times the next few days, before Dad comes back and they have to move again.
*
“Do you think it’ll ever go away?” Sam asks him one night, when they are on watch and Dad’s snores are coming from inside his tent, loud and strong enough to scare any interested animals.
Dean doesn’t have to ask to know what Sam’s asking about.
“I don’t know.” He says, poking the fire and thinking Soon, please. “I don’t know, Sammy.”
*
On Dean’s twenty first birthday, Sam gives him a new leather strap with protection symbols carved into it for his amulet, and a bottle of scotch that Dad pointedly pretends not to see.
He asks Dean that day if there’s anything else he wants for his birthday. He looks so honest and open, with a big dimpled smile on his face that Dean’s almost tempted to ask for something Sam’s certainly not ready to give.
“Nah, Sammy.” He says. “This is awesome.”
Sam hugs him then, all octopus arms and hot skin. And Dean thinks no one will ever get the hang of hugging like Sam does. Like he’s going to crush you under his weight and you won’t want anything else, like there’ll never be anything else.
It takes hours for Dean’s heart to stop hammering inside his chest, and days for his breath to normalize again.
*
The first time Dean and Sam slept in separate beds, it was the summer after Sam turned five and Dad had just told Dean that Sammy would never learn to be brave if Dean kept being brave for him, that Sam should sleep alone sometimes. He didn’t like it, but he still tucked Sam in and still said no when he asked Dean to stay.
They didn’t sleep much that night, because Sam kept crying into his pillow and Dean couldn’t sleep when Sam was upset. Sam didn’t speak to him the whole day next day, didn’t even want to play. But Dad had said Sammy needed to be brave, so Dean played alone.
The next night, they slept side by side on the backseat while Dad drove them to Uncle Bobby’s, to stay a week. And Dean was so happy to have Sammy again that he could sleep in the car every night.
Sam seemed less angry at him when they got to Uncle Bobby’s, played with Dean and watched TV while Dad and Uncle Bobby talked in whispers in the other room about some Bad Thing. But at bed time, after Dad had left, Dean was brushing his teeth when he heard Sam tell Bobby “Dean doesn’t like to sleep with me anymore. Can I sleep on the couch?”
Dean didn’t hear what Bobby answered, but when he came out of the bathroom, Sammy was laying on a green cot stacked high with folded duvets.
Dean thinks sometimes about Sam’s quiet voice that night. And he thinks that was the first time he broke Sam’s heart for doing the right thing. It seems to be his pattern.
*
By May Sam’s almost like he used to be. He’s smiling a lot more now and he managed a gigantic monologue about some really boring book before Dean burst out with “Holy crap! You’re such a geek!” and they both laughed. It’s awesome.
Except for that part inside Dean that seems to be growing, that part inside him that gives him the most vivid dreams about finger fucking Sam, that makes him hard with the smell of Sam’s sweat. That part Dean has been trying hard to bury.
They move to Sacramento and Sam spends the whole time bitching to Dean about school and friends, even though they are moving for a good reason and the one who suggested it was Dad, who’s driving his truck and not having to listen to Sam’s complains. And it’s so normal, so Sam, that it makes Dean feel like he took a round of salt to the chest.
It’s not the first time they move so close the end of the school year, and not the first time Sam bitches about it, but there’s something else in his tone that makes Dean’s blood boil. Dean’s pretty sure Sam had to leave behind a girlfriend. And isn’t that freaking awesome? Dean doesn’t know what to do with all the images his brain keeps feeding him. Sam, tanned and hard, Sam fucking into some preppy cheerleader or some nerdy Spelling champion with glasses and big boobs in tight cat sweaters. Or some closeted jock, fucking Sam in the showers after everyone’s left after soccer practice.
He doesn’t say anything while Sam’s bitching. He rubs his own mouth and scratches his head and tightens his fists hands around the wheel, until his fingers feel numb. He’s pissed and he wants to-something. Wants to beat someone up, wants to tie Sam to a bed and keep him there, wants and wants until he feels like he’s actually losing his mind.
He had hoped Sam would get over it. That Sam could get rid of this insanity or whatever the hell it was that made them like this. He had hoped Sam didn’t have to live with this, but. It’s just too fast.
Sam was gonna succeed. Sam’s pulling away, moving on and Dean’s still left behind, breathless and scared shitless and so freaking alone.
It was honest to God killing Dean.
*
When Sam was a three, his favorite game was Hide and Seek. It was the only thing they could do locked inside a motel room. And like any toddler, Sam sucked at it. He wasn’t very creative yet, and always chose to hide under the bed or under the table. He giggled too. Loud enough to tip Dean off his location in under ten seconds.
It still managed to be the best thing in Dean’s world then. To pretend not to hear Sam’s giggle and ‘wonder’ out loud about how amazing it was that Sam had managed to disappear, just to hear Sam giggling louder.
Actually, the best thing was to catch him. Because instead of running away, Sam would throw himself into Dean’s arms and hug him. And Dean would say “Found ya, Sammy,” while Sam laughed.
*
Pastor Jim calls one morning, and Dad leaves within hours. Dean knows it’s about The Thing That Killed Mom, but he still denies it when Sam bitches about it. Dad knows what he’s doing.
“You know one of these days we’ll get a call from one of Dad’s hunting buddies telling us Dad’s-“
“Stop it, Sam.” Dean barks. “Dad knows how to take care of himself.”
“Right, of course. I forgot Dad was invincible.” Sam deadpans. “You know what? It’s finals week. I don’t need this crap right now.”
Dean wants to punch him, but he knows Sam’s worried. Dean’s worried too. He’s worried Dad will do the suicide by vengeance, or he’ll disappear and they’ll never know what happened. He’s fucking worried too.
“Just shut your pie hole.”
*
He dreams about fucking Sam in the Impala. The windows are rolled open and there’s a cold breeze coming in, even though they seem to have parked in the middle of the desert.
Sam’s naked, his breath damp and hot on Dean’s neck while he keeps begging Dean to fuck him harder, faster, faster and laughing as Dean keeps roaming his hands, touching Sam everywhere he can reach.
Dean wakes up with his cock softening and come sticking to his boxers.
*
Dean’s full of restless energy. He’s been stuck inside a small and moldy apartment with Sam, who broods and complains and studies and walks around in pajamas, muttering about History and Calculus. And Dean has spent so much time under the Impala, he’s already fixed everything that needed to be fixed and a bunch of other crap that didn’t even need it. His baby will end up with a complex.
So before Sam comes back from school and starts another round of too much studying, Dean goes out to the nearest bar he can find, which is a block away from where they’re staying. It’s a sports bar, bursting with college students with too white smiles and too much beer in them. Dean’s not in the mood for people, but he still sits at the bar and knocks down enough tequila shots to make himself nice and friendly, and flirts shamelessly with anyone who’ll give him the time of day. Just to give him something to do that isn’t watching Sammy.
He still leaves the bar before midnight, because he actually wants to watch Sam. And he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t feel like a complete creeper, wanting to sit and watch Sam doing whatever the hell Sam might be doing. Studying, eating, sleeping, screaming about Dad-fuck, Dean’s up for watching while Sam watches a Lifetime movie. And Dean hates those weepy people with weird haircuts.
Dean hasn’t been this drunk ever since Sam was thirteen and got knocked out by a ghost and Dean was scared shitless, had honestly thought Sam was going to die.
It’s weird that he’s feeling like that now. Like Sam could slip away at any moment.
*
He’s got a pocket full of napkins with scribbled telephone numbers, and the world is spinning nicely around him when he gets back. Sam's watching the original King Kong and eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box.
“You are drunk.” Sam says when Dean sits on the couch, not even looking away from the TV. “And you smell like smoke.”
“I smell like awesome, Sammy.” He says, stealing the box from Sam’s hands. “You wish you were this manly.”
“I’m sure I’ll get over it soon.”
“I thought you’d be studying and weeping over your books or something.” He says, around a mouthful of cereal. He thinks some might have fallen off his mouth and to his shirt.
“You’re disgusting.” Sam informs him, making a face. “School’s over. Today was my last day.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? We’d go out and celebrate! Drink!”
“You already celebrated enough for both of us.” Sam says. “The last thing I wanted today was to spend the night watching-” he stops, abruptly. “Plus Dad hasn’t called in a while. I don’t really feel like celebrating.”
“He’s not supposed to call ‘til tomorrow.” Dean smiles. “You were totally gonna say som’thing else there, right?”
And Sam’s face goes bright red, his blush creeping down his neck and disappearing under his shirt. Dean’s fascinated. Sam fidgets and squirms like there’s ants crawling up his back and Dean thinks about taking Sam’s shirt of and seeing what’s going on under there, to roam his hands until Sam’s skin is flushed everywhere.
“Stop it.” Sam’s voice is hoarse and deep, and it goes straight to Dean’s dick. “Stop staring at me, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t say anything. His mouth is dry and he doesn’t think before he rubs a hand on Sam’s neck.
Sam jumps a little. “What-“ He swallows hard. “What’re you doing?”
“Just let me.” He whispers and Sam just stares at him. “Let me.”
Sam’s neck is warm and his hair is soft under Dean’s fingers when they kiss. His mouth is hot and his tongue tastes like sugary chocolate and Dean’s an instant addict. He seems to be everywhere around Dean, fills all the space with his smell and his tongue inside Dean’s mouth, making him more high than he’s ever been before.
“I thought you didn’t want this. Me.” Sam whispers, his breath against Dean’s mouth.
Dean kisses him again, deep and demanding. And then has to back away, to laugh. He’s kissing Sam and feels giddy with it. For the first time in years, Dean feels like he can breathe.
“You really are drunk, huh?” Sam laughs.
“Yeah. Had to. Get drunk.” Dean huffs. “Otherwise would never-“ be brave enough to do it, he thinks. Never have taken what Sam offered freely long ago. “Dunno, bring myself to. Liquid courage, I guess.” He tries kissing again, but Sam goes still, eyes wide.
“What? What did you just say?”
“What did I just say?” Dean’s mind is fuzzy, all he can seem to understand is that Sam is suddenly disentangling and getting up. “Sammy-“
“You’re doing this because, what? Is this-Are you doing me a favor?”
What?
“Say something!”He’s angry now, moving his hands around like he wants to punch Dean. He looks so far away.
“No, Sammy. It’s just-“ He scratches his head. If he were less drunk, he could say everything he wanted. He could say so much, just give Sam the truth, but the words are knocking against each other inside his head. And Dean’s too much of a coward to say it properly, like Sam needs to hear. “C’mon, man.”
“Do you even-even want me? At all?”
Dean should say yes. Yes! He tries to nod, but everything spins around him when he moves too quickly. “I didn’t mean to do this. I thought you’d be happy.” He mumbles instead, and by the look on Sam’s face, there’s nothing he could have said that was worse than that.
“Don’t do me any favors!” Sam shouts now, loud and booming, like he’s fighting with Dad. Dean can see he’s crying too.
“Sammy, just sit down, ok?” Dean needs to explain, needs Sam to stop crying, needs to tell him everything. He needs to fix this. “I’m sorry.”
Sam doesn’t sit. He stands there, fuming, tears rolling down his face, and Dean feels like he’s been stabbed.
“I’m sorry, Sammy.” He stretches his hand to grab at Sam’s shirt, but Sam recoils like a small animal that’s been kicked too many times. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry.” Sam whispers, crossing his arms, all fight gone. He sounds like he’s five again. “Just stop.” He leaves the room, without making any noise, without stomping and without banging any doors. He’s quiet. It’s what he does when he’s too hurt and upset. Dean feels like a dick.
“I’ll explain it better when. Tomorrow.” He calls, and he thinks he might be slurring. “Sammy, tomorrow, ok?”
*
Dean wakes up to Sam shaking him what feels like seconds later, but the room is bright and he can see the sunlight escaping through the curtains. He makes Dean drink a glass of water and sits by Dean’s legs, a faint noise of Cocoa Puffs being crushed under him.
“I guess I am too stupid for my own good.”Sam says, quietly. “It’s not fair, you know. You can’t go messing with my head just ‘cause you feel sorry for your freak of a little brother.”
Dean closes his eyes, the light staring to hurt his head and tries to put into words just how wrong Sam is. “I’ll do anything for you.” He slurs. And he must be falling asleep again when he feels his brother kiss him on the lips.
“I’m not gonna let you do that to yourself.” Sam says.
*
Dean wakes up again to Dad kicking his foot. The sun is higher on the sky now and there must be a rock or something stuck inside Dean’s head because, what the hell! He only remembers his first six shots. His head feels like he drowned in tequila. He hopes he didn’t puke anywhere.
“You have one hour to clean yourself up, pack and be ready to hit the road.” Dad says, and he doesn’t look angry like he usually looks after coming back from The Thing That Killed Mom hunts. He just looks pissed at Dean. “If you’re gonna hurl, do it now before we get going. If you do it in the car, I’ll make you walk the whole way.”
Dean grumbles and gets up. The room is not spinning as he thought it would be, but his head is pounding hard and his stomach is threatening to do a Linda Blair.
“Sam!” Dad calls and Dean almost shushes him, before thinking it over and deciding not to get his ass kicked today. “Start packing!”
“I can’t!” Sam calls back, and Dean closes the bathroom door before they start a screaming match. “I have finals next week, can’t miss it.” Dad says something Dean can’t catch and Sam answers with “Sir, I’d have to stay for summer school if I missed it.”
Dean turns on the shower, steps out of his clothes, cold water making him feel less like a corpse, and more like hung over.
*
Dean’s mind always had a hard time understanding Sam’s anger and even a harder time understanding Sam’s sadness. It seemed that every time Sam was feeling one the two, Dean’s brain classified it as hate. Logically, he knew what Sam was feeling, could classify it and tuck away neatly for future studies.
He was awesome at cracking Sam’s emotional codes. Not as awesome as he once thought, but awesome enough to know which most of them were and where to put them.
It was just that when it was directed at Dean, anything negative was written down as hate. When that happened, all systems would go down, everything would scramble and Dean’s actions were messy and his own emotions kept stopping his rational side from taking over and cleaning everything up.
*
They are two hours away from Sacramento, Dad driving up front in his truck and Dean in the Impala, belly full of pancakes and bacon, the best hangover food, when it all rushes back to him, quick and sharp like a punch to the nose.
Dean kissed his brother last night. He kissed Sam and still managed to fuck it up enough that Sam thinks Dean doesn’t want him. Fuck! Jesus Christ!
He starts making a speech in his head, something to tell Sam when he gets back, or maybe on the phone. He desperately thinks of all the ways he can make Sam believe him, of all the things Dean can promise and has to pull through. And then he thinks. Sam told him school was over last night. Sam told Dad he had to stay behind because he had finals.
Sam lied.
His grip is white knuckled on the steering wheel and his brain keeps supplying him with images and ideas of all the horrible things Sam might be doing alone, of all the things Sam might be planning and he doesn’t even realize he’s turning the car around, going back to Sacramento, foot on the gas, until almost crashes into a minivan and disrupts the traffic and can’t be bothered to give a fuck.
He thinks Sam might have said goodbye last night, but he’s not sure, and not being sure is making his heart pound, freaking terrified.
“Son of a bitch.”
Dad’s honking right behind him, trying to give the signal for Dean to stop, but Dean’s trying to concentrate on the road. He doesn’t want to think of anything else. He doesn’t want to think of all the time they lost by stopping at a diner for fucking pancakes. He doesn’t want to think that Sam might be in it just as badly as Dean and holy shit, he doesn’t want to think of what he’d do if he were in Sam’s shoes.
If he thought Sam had tried to sacrifice himself for Dean’s sickness. If he had told Sam and Sam had rejected him.
He drives as fast as he can.
*
Dean forgets sometimes that Sam is the younger one, that Sam is the one who’s a teenager, full of hormones and confused about everything.
He helped raise Sam, taught Sam everything he knows, but still. He forgets it because Sam is the mature one, the intelligent one, the one who knows the answers and the one who observes everything. Dean might be awesome, but Sam. Sam is the friggin’ best one between them.
Dean doesn’t know how much he’s fucking up by forgetting how young and scared Sam is, how much he’s fucking up until it’s too late.
*
He pulls into a curb next the apartment building, tires screeching. He hears Dad’s truck coming closer, Dad honking and calling for him, but he’s too upset to stop and too scared to explain.
Turns out it was pointless to run so fast. The apartment is dark and empty.
“Sam!” he calls, “Sammy?” Silence.
His knees start to buckle, but he looks around anyway. The salt lines are untouched, Sam’s stuff is gone, his duffle is no longer under the bed and his books are gone from the bedside table.
Dad pulls him by the shirt while he’s rooting under the bed.
“Dean!” he shakes Dean a little and Dean would laugh if he didn’t feel like crying. “What’s going on?”
“Sam’s done with school.” His teeth are clacking and he’s not even cold. “I think-“Dean disentangles from Dad’s hold and starts looking under his own bed for the coffee can with the emergency cash. It’s empty. “I think Sam ran away.”
Dad starts saying something but Dean’s not paying attention. He looks around the apartment, and he knows Dad’s looking too, trashing it for clues, for Sam hiding under the table, for anything that tells them how and where to get Sam back.
There’s a small yellow note stuck to the fridge and Dean’s hands are weirdly steady when he takes it.It’s Sam’s handwriting. With the T’s crossed twice, Sam’s made up signal that means he wrote it and no one forced him to. It was only for emergencies.
I don’t want to be a hunter. I’m sorry.
Sam
*
Dean was seventeen the first time Sam almost died on a hunt.
They were hunting the ghost of a woman who was ripping people to shreds. She was buried in a small cemetery, and Sam was supposed to stay in the car and watch for guards or anyone who might not like that Dean and Dad were doing some grave desecration.
So when Dean and Dad got back to the car, covered in dirt and smelling like smoke, they expected to see Sam sitting there, looking bored and maybe even distracted by a book. They didn’t expect to see the passenger’s window broken, blood and grass on the ground. They didn’t expect to see Sam sprawled on the floor a few feet away, shirt ripped and blood painting his chest.
Dad drove them to the hospital, Dean in the backseat, hands shaking, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to wake Sam up, cursing and pleading. “Sammy, wake up. It’s not that bad. C’mon, Sam!” But Sam wasn’t moving, was barely breathing.
Dean thought then, that it was the worst thing he’d ever have to live through.
He didn’t know yet what six years without Sam would be like.
*
PART 2